


Pumped

by bonehandledknife (ladywinter), Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Series: The Mountains Are The Same [12]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Buckle Up Kids We're Going To The Feels Place, Furiosa's crew trying to make sense of things, Gen, Warboy diversity, implied unnamed slit cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4629558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Pumped</b>: 1) To have such an accumulation of metabolic waste products in the forearm, that forming even a basic grip becomes impossible. A climber who is pumped will find it difficult to hold on, and may struggle to lift or clip a rope. 2)  (Psychology) A feeling of anticipation and energy before a challenging climb.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"We... weren't her... crew…?" Capable said cautiously. </i></p><p>  <i>Rachet swallowed uneasily. "But she— she picked you. For her plans." Stumbled himself into the words, “she picked you over us.”</i></p><p>  <i>"For the coup," Kompass said suddenly, his voice hard and angry. "Right?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pumped

Kompass rappels down from the Repair Boys’ levels, the answers there were no more or less that what he’d been hearing all day after he’d slipped off at the end of the Council:

“Yeah of course we’ll support Furiosa, knows her way around an engine, she does. Respects the belts and tires too, doesn’t run them dry like _some_ Imperators.” A wad of spit lands on the ground as they move between the cars, “Think they endless, the boofhead maggots, then scream at ya when y’can’t come up with ‘em fast.”

Toolbox clopped forward yelling at the Boys on repairs for this or that, unmindful of Kompass trailing after him. They’ve had dealings before, Kompass being part of an active crew with a dedicated blackthumb crew that fell under Toolbox’s larger purview, much the way that Imperator crews fell under the Imperator Prime.

They were mostly amicable for all that the metal-legged blackthumb usually reacted to War Boys with defiant bitterness. Word was, the man had been War Boy trainee before a scouting run had a hot blade sheared off both his legs, cauterizing them behind itself so he couldn’t even be properly Witnessed. He’d then affixed his legs with springy backwards C-shaped things that had let him run even faster than before and gripped for his climbs decently.

But they were too fragile for war: the first trip out one of them got snapped in two.

It was the only set they’d found intact in the Mall, others had long since been broken apart and reworked. Nowadays, he’d one peg leg and one springy, and Toolbox could still maneuver at a decent clip by bouncing off that one leg, and perhaps he could still do war, perhaps have had a seat on the Salvage car with the other half-shredded half-lives. But that meant being bolted down to a seat.

In the choice between that, or being able to move, Toolbox chose movement and being unWitnessed, settling into a support role. It was an incomprehensible choice that no War Boy could forget or let Toolbox forget.

Even Furiosa’s crew didn’t much know what to make of the idea, but didn't much rag on the man, partially due to the Looks their Boss would give them should they do. Mostly... because they’d squirm, or they’d shut each other up, remembering how one or another had been lifted away from a mediocre death, choosing movement instead of a witness.  How they would help crew, gladly, but found themselves unable to speak about it to someone who hadn’t been there. Found themselves glad that very few were allowed on their runs, to see.

Their Imperator’s crew was successful however, no matter their unseemly methods. They never came back with losses; even from the very first all vehicles came back more or less running. It’d certainly endeared her to the Repair Boys, and moreover when their Imperator would come down herself and get her own fingers black right alongside them.

“You tell her to come back down when she can,” Toolbox continued, unmindful of Kompass’ thoughts, “Would like to speak with her, ask her some things.”

“Oh?” Kompass asked warily.

Toolbox caught his look and bellowed a laugh, smacking him on the shoulder, “Nothing bad, just… a friendly question.”

“Really.”

“One that wasn’t asked before she took off,” Toolbox muttered, and shrugged, looking like a long-evening’s watch over a bunkmate’s fevers.

Kompass had only hummed and made excuses and Toolbox waved him off after smashing his head against Kompass’ in camaraderie.

The Chop Boys from the mess halls had no opinion either way so longs as they could keep near the cookery, and the supplies kept coming. The Drummer Boys-in-training seemed to welcome the lack of other drummers and the potential for more celebration and war. And the soft lazy Greenthumbs only hummed in that aggravating and slow way of theirs, and muttered something about some ‘tips’ Furiosa gave them at some point or another, which Kompass assumed she knew from her time in the Vault.

He’d brushed that mention aside and asked them, pointedly, “Do you support her, then?”

“Hmm, maybe so,” Trowel, one of the lower ranked gardeners glanced at the others around them, and nodded, scratching the back of their thumbnail across their eyebrow, “maybe so. But y’think she would’ve asked this of us personally, no?” Their sun-leathered skin went pinched around the eyes.

Kompass blew out a breath, and slowed down some himself, “She’s been injured, all told.” Then he blinked and shook himself, jaw tight, “but she’s bouncing back fast. You know how she’s survived her arm getting shorn off, and came back stronger.” He said this with defiance. He said this knowing that they had to appear strong.

Trowel only hummed and stared at him steadily, “I don’t mean right now. Mmm no, not now. Heard how she’s ailing, them old ones been coming around and asking for certain herbs.”

“Then?”

“Thennn,” Trowel drawled, “why didn’t she ask us before she set off on this thing, mmm?”

Kompass couldn’t answer because he didn’t know why not even her crew had been asked, he still felt gutted at the idea, himself, but it’s not like he could say that she didn’t even ask her _own_ crew—

“Ah, so that’s how it is.” Their hand gently patted Kompass’ shoulder and he flinched lightly as he was shocked out of his thoughts. “Tell her that we ask that she come by again sometime. Tell her that we ask her to see us personally.”

The murmurs in agreement rose around them from the other greenthumbs and Kompass found himself stumbling out of their circle.

He’d taken a deep breath and thought maybe the conversations had all gone smoother than he’d expected due to the widow’s influences. They’ve at least spoken to the greenthumbs and the mess hall crews, it was good to see that they weren’t just taking the council representatives at their word and had gone to see the individuals for themselves.

But now comes the harder part.

Kompass needs to speak to The Fixer, a pale, emaciated man with sagged skin and legs gone twisted, the one who slides Between. Whenever the head Repair boy can’t find this or that part, nor the Storage, nor could be salvaged from the Mall, ask it of The Fixer and he’ll Fix that situation for you, provided you have something of enough value to trade.

The man makes the back of Kompass’ neck break out in a sweat. Something of the way the man forms words makes him think he’d like to take a bite from whatever nearby living flesh.

In this case Kompass himself.

“Furiosa,” the Fixer says, “sent _you_ to see if I support her, this new… _Regime_. That she is building.”

The pale man’s fingertips are blackened as they sharpen a knife, idly. Kompass feels himself more threatened by the fingers, than the knife. He thinks the black isn’t the honest black of grease, looks a little too rust, too red, for that.

“Yes,” Kompass manages, and isn’t entirely happy with how the sound comes out. The Fixer’s fingers come to a point, sharp, like teeth, like eyes, and he feels it like a scriiiiitch up the back of his neck.

“Been hearing this and that— about how those widows have been managing things. A little odd, don’t you think?”

“Plenty odd, actually,” he shrugs at this, voice neutral, there’d been many things in that council that he hadn’t fully understood, feeling out of place and unnatural, but the women had meant well.

He doesn’t think the Fixer means for anything ‘well’, unless he was served too.

“I’m glad we’re in agreement on this,” the small eyes twinkle at him as if in fondness, “You’ll look out for both our interests, I presume?”

Kompass lies as best he can.

When they shake on it however, the Fixer sharply drags him in by the grip and stares him down with his bloodshot eyes, “Tell me though, why she didn’t stage this at the Citadel eh? We’d given her a good hearing. Not all’s us drinks old Joe’s spew.”

Saying so is blasphemy however, and makes Kompass shift a bit uncomfortably, unable to answer. First for the insult to Joe’s memory and second because Kompass still doesn’t even know why their Boss didn’t tell her own crew, let alone the rest of the Citadel. He would also really prefer to not be quite so close to the man, the sagging folds of skin even more disturbing up close, the fingers sharp and deadly against his own.

“Ah, what am I thinking, talking to a War Boy like that,” the supplier of Hidden Things laughs, “Though thought you different, being one of Furiosa’s. You nevermind and just tell her I’ll support her.”

“You’ll support the Imperator,” Kompass repeats numbly, trying not to give away his tension and tug himself out of the pale man’s grip.

"Exactly that, _if_ she keeps the wheel steady like we’re used to. Heard about that whole incident with Corpus, left the little feca alive, did she?”

“A bit out of the loop on that one,” he lies, feeling it like a rake down his spine.

“Doesn’t matter then, let her know it was good idea, he knows a lot, remembers it all too... just keep him out of the gears of anything himself and it’ll run smooth.” The pale man frowns and lets him go finally, and his entire skin shivers like trying to shake the touch off, “see to keeping them milking mothers out of the works as well.”

“Yeah?” Kompass asks.

“They’re pretty things, but dumb. You don’t want to trust important stuff to such like that.”

Kompass presses his mouth closed and hums neutrally.

“Well? Why are you still here? Go deliver your report.” The Fixer waves him off and swivels back to his things like a spider’s crawl, and Kompass backs away from the room as fast as was polite.

 

As he gets handholds to climb himself away from that place, Kompass finds he doesn’t understand why his stomach squirms at the thought of the milking mothers in the council referred to in such tones. He thinks it might be his tumors, but they’d hadn’t shifted and spread like others’ had; he’s had them for as long as he remembered and nothing’s ever come from it. Except for pissing him off for no good reason and making him do things he doesn’t even understand.

He _still_ doesn’t understand why he’d tossed Rachet off the War Rig. All he remembers is the sandstorm in front of them and seeing Ace yelling at the Boss and seeing him getting pistolwhipped away from the Rig. A splash of red. Next thing he knew, Kompass’d found himself grabbing two handfuls of Rachet’s shorts and flinging him to starboard, away from the explosions on the other side.

Which only lead to getting socked in the face and called _filth_ , and tossed off the Rig himself by the remaining crew.

He doesn’t remember much after that. Except slowly waking up from a mound of sand. Finding Rachet. Finding Ace. Kompass didn’t know how much of Ace’s subsequent silence and apathy was disorientation from his wounds versus disorientation from Furiosa traitoring them— but the upshot was that Kompass ending up with the decision-making. So he dragged them all towards the Citadel.

It just felt right, and he’d work out the rest when he got there, he’d thought.

And Kompass _had_ been right in the end. When they arrived, no one cared, and Kompass was able to secure some boltholes for them all just in case. And when the new leadership arrived, they _still_ didn’t care until Kompass barged into Furiosa’s room and saw that their Boss had seemed to have _always_ cared.

But the whole thing didn’t make sense.

 _Why didn’t she_ _**tell** _ _them_?

* * *

Kompass paced up to the Imperator's quarters and barged in, not pausing to knock.

Ace had a knife in his hand, looking a little wild around the eyes before he recognised Kompass. Huh. He didn't have time to think on that right now.

"Ace. Need to talk to ya. Not—" he flicked a glance at Furiosa, asleep behind Ace. She looked grey and exhausted.

Ace hauled himself to his feet. He wasn't supposed to be up yet, but nothing much could keep War Boys down and this was important. Kompass led him to an alcove a short way away from her door.

"What is it?" Ace leaned up against the wall. He looked uneasy, eyes flicking back in the direction of Furiosa's quarters like he was simultaneously relieved to be away and feeling guilty for letting the Boss out of his sight.   

"I went 'round talkin to people," it burst out of Kompass, he _feels_ his language falling back to its roots but can’t help it with how strongly it hit him that, "She didn't talk t'none of 'em! I thought maybe she'd left us out of th'loop, dunno why she'd do that, don't make no _sense_ , but she didn't get anybody else in either!"

Ace frowned sideways like Kompass wasn't hitting true on what he was talking about, like Ace disagreed for some reason. Which was all farcical of him, the Ace’d always been quickest on her defense. That he’d even let her be shredded like that, feverish and wan all these long two days, that _any_ of them let her be shredded like that, had been reving up his blood. Why didn’t she let them just hear—

"The plan - the _coup_ !" Kompass yelled. "You'd think she'd have it set up, right, so she'd have supporters? _Someone_ to help? None of 'em knew!"

"That's becau—"

"What, _nobody_ in the Citadel was good enough? What kind of mediocre plan _was_ this? She was just gonna drive out there, get the whole War Party after her and bargain on somehow makin' it back?"

"I don't think that was—"

"Her plan? Did she even have a plan? Was she out of her _mind_ ?!" Kompass hissed, fired up at the thought all over again. At the idea that they weren’t trusted, _none_ of them, _none_ of them Worthy, "Why wouldn't she _tell_ us? We coulda made—" he flung up his hands, "dunno, a better plan! Something' not put together with wishes and old women!"

He still struggled to believe that she hadn't told them, and apparently not because she'd had people she thought were better to trust with this, but because she'd preferred goin' at it alone. It was something she would’ve kicked a guy off the crew for.

"I gotta go find Rachet," he decided abruptly, not seeing Ace's grimace.

 

* * *

"Why d'you want pants, anyway? Ya'lls clothes are so soft and shine."

The women exchanged looks Rachet couldn't decipher, and then Capable said, "They're clothes for people who don't go anywhere and don't do anything. We need pants."

That made sense to Rachet. They'd been Protected and Treasured. Now they had lost that, they needed something else to protect them... And there’s no place at all for them to put tools and shanks and suchlike in all their finery, would ruin the drape of it entire. Rachet hums at their loss, some. He was surprised they didn't seem more upset with the Boss for stealing them away from their lives.

“Y’sure you don’t want me to just fetch the pants for ya tho?”

“Very sure.”

“We want to see all parts of the Citadel, not just the tops.”

“The parts Joe locked us away in.”

Rachet hadn't seen the breeders walk around without one of the older women to guard them, before this. Were they even allowed? He supposed it wasn't up to him. He was just here to help them find their way and make sure nothing happened to them.   

“But isn’t it… nicer up there?” Rachet’s leading them lower towards the Immortan’s Storage where they dole out gear in trade. It was near some of the sleeping ledges and it wasn’t like what these prized breeders were used to, probably, even if they were some of the best the War Boys got.

"Not if you can't leave."

“Why would y’wanna to leave though?” Rachet mused out loud, "But I guess y’got stole. Dunno why the Boss did that.”

The widows made a strange face that he blinked at, shrugged at. Maybe they were confused at Boss’ thinking too.

 

Rachet approached Stuffs. The heavyset Quartermaster was leaning against a metal table, his bulk blocking the path to the room of clothes and small loose salvage that crews collected from runs, either off opponent’s bodies and vehicles or off War Boys who’d been Witnessed and reclaimed. All that they found in the wastes belonged to Immortan Joe, but the War Boys have permission to trade for it; as gatekeeper, Joe had chosen Stuffs to act as a living door. While normally weight was a sign of luxury, on Stuffs it was taken to extremes; a cowled man usually at the quartermaster’s elbow, handing him yet another bottle of mother’s milk. another biscuit of rare grains. Stuffs always grimaced at the food pressed into his hands, the ungrateful wretch, and no one much gave the Imperator’s son any sympathy. Born lucky that one, and placed high, and his abundance swept around him.

Nobody much liked making contact with any bit of him, this spoiled thing that’ll die soft, and made their trades as quick as possible, passing along whatever goods they had in exchange with their fingertips as Stuffs spun in place to confer with the War Pups manning the Immortan’s Storage on the other side.

But the Immortan was killed by Furiosa, and these women were, as much as it twisted him up, those she’d picked on that run. The Storage should be theirs then, as favored crew, as practically Imperators.

“Hey Stuffs!” Rachet hailed, for once Stuffs didn’t have a cowled man attending him. “These shinies would like some pants, think ya got any that’d fit?”

“You have trade?”

“Don’t need trade, this is all theirs now, all Furiosa’s, ain’t it?”

“Say’s who.”

“Eh? What’s this. Furiosa’s done shredded Joe…” a hard swallow, “tossed ‘im to the Wretched. So what’s his is hers now.” Like it would if any War Boy made a direct challenge beyond the Pits.

“Ain’t. Least I hears, the water is the milkers, and their milk too. And these breeders ‘ere’s got the green all locked up. This is my share, eh?”

“It’s the Immortan’s share! We all worked to collect it, every last War Boy!”

Toast spoke up, “But they make you _trade_ for it?”

“Yes?” Rachet frowned, “Without Immortan Joe, there would be no raids.”

“Well what about each War Boy’s share of the takings?” Toast pressed.

Rachet shrugs, “Aqua-cola, meals, enough salvage to fit in a pocket.”

“And you use the little bit you earn to trade for… more salvage? The same that you’ve collected for the Immortan in the first place?” Capable asked gently. “Don’t you think that’s unfair?”

“That’s how you earn your keep. Be useful.” Rachet didn’t understand why this was so confusing to the breeders, was it really that complex? “Look, Stuffs, just give ‘em their pants, work out the tithes later.”

But the quartermaster wasn’t even facing him.

“You girls,” Stuffs said, looking at the breeders intently, “Women, I should say, you know a thing or two do you?”

“We might,” Toast said, chin up, meeting his gaze squarely. “We might have an idea of how everyone could breathe a little easier, with Joe gone.”

“Heard there was a scrap over the water ‘n’ milk with Corpus. Heard ya’ll won.” A giant puff of breath, like a mountain sighing, “And you didn’t keep the liquid; why?”

“The milking mothers know it best. They’ve lived with it, for many thousand days, how it works, how much would flow.”

“You don’t think they’ll keep it from the rest of us?”

“Would you keep them from having pants, when they come down and ask you?” that dagger singsonged. "Would I keep either you or them from having greens? It goes off. Needs to be shared."

Capable nodded, “An equal base share, that can increase with meritorious acts. Enough so that everyone can do what they do best, move freely not limited by false constraints.” She looked at Stuffs levelly, “The Wasteland itself does enough of that for us all, doesn’t it?”

Stuff just looked back with doubt in his face, “Think you can just say that and make it happen? Think there’s not people perfectly happy with the way things have always been done?”

Toast snorts, “Well we can’t _make_ it happen if you don’t give us some pants, first.”

There was a long pause and then he suddenly bursts out laughing.

“Hah, I like that,” he nodded, amusement in his voice, then turned, a slow pivot and a hand reaches backwards. A small white hand pops up with four pairs of pants, items which he grabbed and passes over. “Here. Some green would not be amiss, and I’ll wait on if you can hold up the rest of those promises.”

Capable takes the items from him and clasps his hand in agreement, the large palm dwarfing hers, “It’s agreed.”

Rachet stares at her wide-eyed, at their clasped hands, Stuffs does too.

And then he gently and awkwardly withdraws it. “Um. Well. Yes.”

“Later then!” Rachet shouted as he hurried the breeders away, never knew when the lug would change his mind. Didn’t know where the flame-haired one got the idea to touch Stuffs, Joe’s widows sure knew nothing. “Careful now,” he said friendly-like, “Lets find some better area for you all to change up. Deserve better than the likes of here.”  

The women whispered excitedly among themselves as they walked.

"Told you we wouldn't need Janey."

"You were so great, Toast."

"So were you. I don't think the idea of sharing makes sense to anybody here."

"We will make it make sense to them."

Rachet found a deep alcove where they could change, and turned his back while he waited. He heard rustling behind him and murmuring as the women helped each other

"So where next?" He liked it when they talked to him, the way they seemed to be interested in his replies.

"There're a repair cave, isn't there? We want to gather material for a new arm for Furiosa."

"Or ask somebody there to do it, at least."

"Boss made her arm herself," Rachet frowned. "Always fiddlin' with it, too. Even Toolbox can't make anything she'd be happy with."

"I know, that's why we only want the materials."

"We figure she'll get frustrated with the resting once her fever breaks, so working on a new arm might give her something to focus on."

"Huh." that was… so clever he wished he'd thought of it himself. “That’s chrome, woulda never thoughta that. No wonder she took ya’ll on as crew."

There was a heavy-feeling silence.

"Maybe she'll stay down to rest for a little longer that way, you know? The stories Ace would tell once he gets rolling, swears the Boss never stayed much still even when she lost her arm. Out of the Blood Shack like a shot, she was." Not that he could blame her. Nobody wanted to stay around Organic longer'n needed. “A pain in Ace’s throat if she’s ever injured. Always moving around and aggravatin’ it."

A question drifted out at last, “Her crew always takes care of her like that?”

“Try not to,” Rachet laughed, to another weird silence, “That’s what _we’re_ for. Throw ourselves in-between anything aiming for her, when all’s said. Better us than her.”

“Oh,” It was a low kind of sound, like when Rachet would give someone something they didn’t expect because they were feeling mediocre that day. _How strange, why would the widows feel any sort of mediocre?_

“Just like any Imperator would for the Immortan himself.”

However even _he_ could feel the awkward of that silences as the sound of the cloth stilled. _Oh._

“Well, perhaps not so much the Boss.” Rachet shifted from foot to foot. The Redeemer gave them everything, it’d would be blasphemy for him to have said as much a couple days ago, but now it’s their truth. He still didn’t know how to fit what he knew now into what he knew before. Thinking about it much made his head ache.

After a few minutes Toast walked out of the alcove, dressed in pants and a wrapped chest coverin' of the soft cloth. She balled up another length of it in her hands as she looked at him piercingly.

"Y’don't want that anymore?" Rachet blurted, nodded at her hand.

She shook her head.

 

"Can I—" his hand twitched toward it before he could stop it.

She gave him a wary look. "Why, 'cause I've _worn_ it?"

"Wh-what?"

"I don't think it's a perv thing," Capable said, coming out of the alcove, fussing with her belt to make the weight settle on her hips right. "Nux said—" she swallowed. "Said that he'd never felt anything so soft."

"Hmm." Toast stared at Rachet, and he shuffled a little uncomfortably, not sure why she was so suspicious. Then she finally held out the balled cloth to him. He lightly ran his fingers over it, feeling his callouses catch. Stroked with the back of his fingers instead, making a sound of wonder.

"Feels shine."

The possibilities of a material so soft opened up to him. A new top for the Boss? Something to cushion the chafing of her arm, when she built a new one. No matter how she'd tinkered with the old one, her stump had always been sore after runs, the belts leaving red welts in her shoulder. Thinking of chafing, he knew Kompass' lumps had turned wearing his belts uncomfortable, if he had some of this stuff he could do something—

Toast's face did something he couldn't quite make sense of, but she pressed the cloth into his touch.

"Here then. Take it."

He took it and stuffed the white material into one of his big cargo pockets, "T-thanks."

The other two breeders came out of the alcove, looking pleased with the trousers and the way they were all covered up on top.

"We asked her to."  Burst out of the youngest one, with the black hair.

“Huh?”

“What you asked before, why Furiosa ‘did that’. Why she took us away: because we asked her to.”

"Huh." Rachet blinked. Mentally poked at that thought but it didn’t get any clearer. "Why'd she agree? She's always still sad 'bout missin' the Immortan herself."

Only then apparently the Boss had shredded the Immortan, and that made no _sense_ , Rachet couldn't think about that, it made his head ache.

It suddenly grew quiet, and he became aware that they were all looking at him.

"She was _sad_?"

"She _missed_ him?"

Rachet felt flustered and wasn't sure why.

"We weren't to talk about the Immortan," he fumbled. "Especially when— when she'd been to report to him. Made her all sad and quiet, because she missed his…" he waved a hand, trying to remember what Ace had said. " ‘Regard’."

Furiosa must have been so jealous of these wives. Rachet would’ve been. He wondered if that was why she stole them? Maybe she'd been planning to take their place? Maybe he'd refused to take her back and that's why she'd shredded him?

No, that didn't seem right. Who would say no to the Boss?

"Rachet!"

He whipped around to see Kompass bearing down on them with long, heavy paces. Rachet often felt like other people spoke a secret language without words that he'd never learned, but even he could tell the other Warboy was angry, or frustrated, something like that.

The women shifted to behind Rachet. He wasn't surprised - they'd met Kompass during the council, but hadn't interacted much. And Kompass was a big guy, not as tall as the Ace but at least as wide in the shoulders. He could be intimidating; hell, when Rachet had first been positioned in his section on the rig, he'd been intimidated by his new section boss himself. Right now he looked like an oncoming storm. The one called Toast stepped forward, a hand going to the pistol at her side

"Hey! Kompass!" Rachet called, voice a forced upbeat, hoping to head off an explosion. "You been to talk to Toolbox?"

Kompass' jaw worked.

"Yes."

"We're just goin' there."

Kompass grunted and turned down the hallway that would lead to the head Repair Boy's domain. The women followed, quiet now and tense. Rachet wanted them to talk again, liked how their voices sounded when they were relaxed and pleased, liked how he felt when they did that around him.  

"Boss shake you about on the perches?" he asked them, grinning a little.

He received four identical confused looks when he dropped back to walk beside them.

"Did she what?"

"Bounce the rig around a little, make ya hold on extra. Boss always likes to do that when she's got new crew.” Rachet mused, and perked up, “This one time we had a guy try out, real tough warboy, got staples 'n scars all over, big stories, and he thought it'd be so easy. Kept struttin’ away from his position. All the time just tryin' to get the Boss' attention, like she wanna be busy watchin' crew when she's gotta be watchin' the road, scanning the horizon, right?”

Rachet looked over and they nodded, a bit slowly, so he continued. “One point, he's standing on the hood of the rig with 'is lance out, blockin' the Boss' sightlines, _again_ , and the Ace was tryin' to get him to shift, but the Boss—" he chuckled at the memory. "She just done stomp the brakes.”

“Sent him flyin' right off,” Rachet made a woosh sound and a zooming motion with his hand, “up over the cab and—" he smacked his fist into his palm with a thwack sound, "right against the tank. Morsov hadda peel ‘im off."

“Come to think of it, some older crew said he’d tried out before. Forgot his name though.” Rachet said, and looked to Kompass. "You remember 'im, the guy with the face?" but the man didn’t look willing to jump in. The women were exchanging looks among themselves. “She ever tell y'all that one?”

"We... weren't her... crew…?" Capable said cautiously.

Rachet swallowed uneasily, not sure why this line of conversation suddenly felt like a bad idea. "But she— she picked you. For her plans." Stumbled himself into the words, “she picked you over us.”

"For the coup," Kompass said suddenly, his voice hard and angry. "Right? You knew things, were taught things in the Vault.”

There was some kind of language going on between the women, something Rachet didn't understand at all and the pause only seemed to make Kompass more agitated.

Then Toast said, "The coup was… not the original plan."

"We asked her to take us away from here."

"It was never the plan to come back."

"We're real sorry that she— that you were sacrificed for our escape."

" _Escape_ ," Kompass repeated flatly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Bonehandledknife](http://bonehandledknife.tumblr.com/): The Fixer is based on Pan's Labyrinth's Pale Man
> 
> [Primarybufferpanel](http://primarybufferpanel.tumblr.com/): The story Rachet tells is a little gift for [Freshbakedlady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/freshbakedlady), who is [podficcing this series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/301551) :-)


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